ncluding thought. "As to living and dying Barbara Hare, that's
all moonshine, and sentimental rubbish that girls like to--"

"Archibald!"

He was passing the very last tree in the park, the nearest to his house,
and the interruption came from a dark form standing under it.

"Is it you, my dearest?"

"I came out to meet you. Have you not been very long?"

"I think I have," he answered, as he drew his wife to his side, and
walked on with her.

"We met one of the servants at the second stile, but I went on all the
way."

"You have been intimate with the Hares?"

"Quite so. Cornelia is related to them."

"Do you think Barbara pretty?"

"Very."

"Then--intimate as you were--I wonder you never fell in love with her."

Mr. Carlyle laughed; a very conscious laugh, considering the recent
interview.

"Did you, Archibald?"

The words were spoken in a low tone, almost, or he fancied it, a tone of
emotion, and he looked at her in amazement. "Did I what, Isabel?"

"You never loved Barbara Hare?"

"Loved _her_! What is your head running on, Isabel? I never loved but
one; and that one I made my own, my cherished wife."

CHAPTER XVIII.

MISS CARLYLE--ISABEL UNHAPPY.

Another year came in. Isabel would have been altogether happy but for
Miss Carlyle; that lady still inflicted her presence upon East Lynne,
and made it the bane of its household. She deferred outwardly to Lady
Isabel as the mistress; but the real mistress was herself. Isabel was
little more than an automaton. Her impulses were checked, her wishes
frustrated, her actions tacitly condemned by the imperiously-willed
Miss Carlyle. Poor Isabel, with her refined manners and her timid and
sensitive temperament, had no chance against the strong-minded woman,
and she was in a state of galling subjection in her own house.

Not a day passed but Miss Carlyle, by dint of hints and innuendoes,
contrived to impress upon Lady Isabel the unfortunate blow to his own
interests that Mr. Carlyle's marriage had been, the ruinous expense she
had entailed upon the family. It struck a complete chill to Isabel's
heart, and she became painfully impressed with the incubus she must be
to Mr. Carlyle--so far as his pocket was concerned. Lord Mount Severn,
with his little son, had paid them a short visit at Christmas and Isabel
had asked him, apparently with unconcern, whether Mr. Carlyle had put
himself very much out to the way to marry her; whether it had entailed
on him